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OUR FRIENDS 
THE WHITE MOUNTAINS 



of 



NEW HAMPSHIRE 



^ 



... BY ... 

Fred A. Gannon 



^ 



A story of tramps over Gulfside Trail, from Mount Madison to 

Mount Washington, by Ernest P. Lane, Albert E. Cole 

Wilbur F. Brown, John L. Tudbury and Fred A. Gannon 



Copyright 1921 

by 
Fred A. Gannon 



.s 



JAN -4 1922 



Nbwcomb & Gauss 

Printers 

Salem, Mass. 



CU655779 



OUR FRIENDS— THE WHITE MOUNTAINS. 

It was on our seventh trip that we learned we 
loved the mountains. This time they welcomed us, 
not as occasional visitors, to be entertained, dis- 
missed and forgotten, but as old friends, to be treated 
with that hearty cordiality and kindly sympathy 
which is currency and bond among good friends. 

In the early evening we tarried in the ravine at 
the foot of Mount Madison. The brook softly rippled 
by at our feet, the mountains rose in their majesty 
before our eyes, and the silvery moon, high in the 
skies, looked serenely down upon us. On the mead- 
ows and hills was the green verdure of June, and 
high up on Madison remained a patch of snow, to 
remind us of the winter that had passed. No won- 
der we talked of the mystery of the mountains, and 
stories were told of the Indians, who never would 
climb to the summits because they believed them the 
abode of their Great Spirit. 

We began to understand what Whittier meant 
when he wrote: 

"Touched by a light that hath no name, a glory never 
surg. 
Aloft in sky and mountain wall are God's great 
pictures hnng." 



IN THE MOKNING EAKLY. 



ISText morning, bright and early, with packs 
strapped snug to our backs, we strode merrily acrosJS 
the meadow and struck for the trail that leads up 
by Snyder's brook. To us it is among the most 
charming of the tramps among the hills. Perhaps 
we loved it most because it was our first tramp to 
the mountains, seven years ago. Yet its beauty de- 
lights us each time we travel over it. 

Up the foothills we made our way, pausing often, 
for it is the better part of msdom for the city-bred 
to take things very easy the first days in the moun- 
tains. Besides, we had learned in experience, that 
he who goes slowest in the mountains sees and 
enjoys the most. 

We looked at the brook, dashing down its rocky 
course and breaking into rills of silver as it tumbled 
from boulder to boulder. We looked at the soft 
green moss on the rocks, and the ferns and flowers 
springing up from it. We looked into the maze of 
the forest at the tiny trees struggling up towards the 
sun, at the monarch cro^vuing the woodlands, or tum- 
bled down to earth by the great winds that sometimes 
sweep down the mountain sides. We turned often 
to look back upon the picture of hill and lake, farm 
and meadow, village and manufacturing town. We 
paused often to speak of the charm of nature and 
of the beauty of the scene before us. Yes, the spirit 



of the mountains was coming upon us, and tliat is 
the way it should be with men who race from the 
cities to the peace and power of the mountains. 



STEP BY STEP THE HEIGHTS ARE CLIMBED." 

True enough, our feet began to tell us that it was 
a long, long way up the mountains. The hundred- 
yard marks along the trail seemed far, far apart. 
Yet time in plenty we took for leisure and reflection. 
Memory recalled to us that in schoolboy days we 
raced the hundred-yard path in nigh to ten seconds. 
But here we were on the mountains, tramping one 
hundred yards in ten minutes. Laugh if ye will, 
ye city bred, who pound the smooth, hard pavements. 
The slow pace is best in the mountains, for being on 
leisure bent, we tarry often by the way, to drink 
from the brook, to watch the birds, or to look upon 
a tiny flower, a great tree, or that vast panorama so 
richly spread before us. It was hard to think of the 
war-wounded world below us. 



THIS HUT HAS A HEAKT. 



We came to Madison hut towards noon, threw off 
our packs, and settled down to the business of house- 
keeping. Good old Madison hut! Stony and cold 



your walls may be, but your heart is warm, and 
hospitality is joy to the foot- weary traveler. Bacon 
and coffee restored the balance to the body. Cave 
dwellers of cities may praise the elaborate dinners of 
their favorite inns, but to the man of the mountains 
there is nothing sweeter and more nourishing than 
golden-brown bacon, hot from the pan at Madison. 



A STKONG MAN OF THE MOUNTAINS. 

Making up the records, we found that we had 
journeyed up the Snyder brook trail, a distance of 
3% miles, in four hours. Glancing over the camp 
records, we found this entry: "August 4, 1921, Henry 
J. Trahan of Berlin, IST. H., carried from the Ravine 
house to Madison hut this day: lumber, 139 pounds; 
sack, 2 pounds; lunch, 3 pounds; total, 144 pounds. 
Weighed by Howard Henderson and Lawrence How- 
ard, caretakers." 

We also found that, July 27 of the same year, 
Trahan had carried 102 pounds up the mountains. 

'No longer were 20-pound packs heavy on our backs. 
At least, they might have felt hea\'^^, but we did not 
dare to complain after reading Trahan's records. 



A MITE AMONG THE MOUNTAINS. 

In the afternoon we sauntered out to the parapet, 
or headwall, between Madison and Adams, a favorite 
retreat with us. We took shelter on the sunny side 
of a ledge, for there was a mountain chill in the 
bracing winds. While we marveled at the depths 
of the gulf and the height of the mountain walls, 
we spied a flash of light from the windshield of an 
automobile coming down the carriage road on Wash- 
ington. To us, it was like a fly on the ceiling, or 
better still, a mosquito, for it often disappeared from 
our view. We reckoned roughly that it was eight 
or nine miles across to the carriage road. We were 
glad that we could watch that tiny speck, crawling 
along the great mountain side, for it showed that our 
eyesight was still good. 

An excellent test, as well as an excellent rest, for 
the eyes, is a trip to the mountains. Eyes tired of 
being glued to books, figures of business, and print 
of newspapers day after day, find rest when they 
turn to the long-range views of the mountains. We 
know that, on clear days, one may look from the 
mountain tops to the Atlantic, 70 miles away. We 
have heard that mountains in Maine, Canada and JSTew 
York, more than 100 miles away, may be seen. But 
what is a few hundred miles to see. Do we not see 
the stars at night, a million and more miles away ? 



THE EVEE- APPEALING MYSTERY OF THE MOUNTAINS. 

After supper we went to Sunset rock, on the north- 
erly shoulder of Madison, and watched the sun go 
down. At such a time there is peace and mystery 
in the mountains beyond understanding. What is 
there on the other side of that gate of crimson and 
gold, through which the sun passes so serenely at 
eventide ? 



ALONG A MOUNTAIN BOULEVAED. 

ISText day, while the morning was yet young, we 
set forth from Madison huts for a tramp over Gulf- 
side trail to Washington's summit. Old Adams 
frowns upon us as we pass. Why does that peak 
always look as cold and as forbidding as an iceberg ? 
We climbed hastily over its rocky sides and made 
our course for Jefferson. We paused here and there 
to praise Professor Edmunds for making this paved 
trail, which we are pleased to consider the best boule- 
vard in the mountains. Certainly it is the highest 
route of traveling in I^ew England, it being, we 
figure, nearly a mile above the sea. And if a man 
cannot enjoy the view with every step that he takes 
along Gulfside trail, then he might as well lock him- 
self up in one of those modern caves, called office 
buildings, and stay there the rest of his life, for he 
is a lover of nature no more than is a red brick. 



On Monticello lawn, bj Jefferson's noble summit, 
we paused to look at the croquet set, and to wonder 
if any imps of the White Mountains ever tried their 
sk:iU with it, as the strange men of the Adirondacks 
with whom Rip Van Winkle tried his skill in the 
game of bowls. 

By the side of Great Gulf we paused to rest, or 
rather to dream, for though the limbs be weary from 
tramping, yet the mind will not close to the vision 
that nature spreads before us. Seven times in seven 
years have we tarried by the Great Gulf, and each 
time do we marvel anew at its wonders. We believe, 
as Thoreau wrote, that '^ISTature was here something 
savage and awful, though beautiful." 

How big is it ? Could we hide our home town 
in it ? Could one man be seen among its trees ? 
Could an army of men hide in its forests ? Is Spauld- 
ing Lake a big mirror, or is it the pool of clear water 
thai we saw when we visited it ? How long were 
those great boulders sliding down the mountain side ? 
What started yonder slide ? Does not the shadow 
of the clouds upon the trees look like an elephant, 
a whale, or a giant hand ? How long would it take 
a man to dig out this vast gulf? These, and other 
and other questions we have asked and asked again, 
and have talked over again and again, for it is a 
part of a mountain trip to forget the tedious detail 
of business and to let fancy run free. 



THE TOPS OF THE MOUNTAINS ARE AMONG THE 
UNFINISHED PARTS OF THE WORLD," THOREAU. 

This time, there comes to lis the story told by an 
old man, whom we met at breakfast in the ravine, 
just before we started up the trail. "How old are 
these mountains ?" we asked him, thinking to draw 
from him some early story of Darby Field, the Craw- 
fords, Starr King, or other early traveler or settler 
of the mountains. 

"Some say 20,000,000 and some say 25,000,000 
years," began the old man. "Ages and ages ago were 
they heaved up from the seas. The hot suns of the 
tropics have shone upon them, and great trees have 
grown on them, and giant beasts have roamed their 
forests. Glaciers have rolled do-\vn upon them from 
the arctic. The seas have surged upon them, even 
covering their summits. Time and the giant forces 
of nature, earthquake and avalanche, heat and cold, 
rain and snow, have made the mountains, and now 
they are growing old and wrinkled and are settling 
down, like a man bent and wrinkled by years." So 
the old man told us. As we recollected his story we 
gave up trying to figure out how long it would take 
a man to dig out the great gulf. A man is only a 
mite in the mountains, less than that speck of an 
automobile which we saw crawling on the side of 
Washington. Indeed, man is less than a mite in the 



mountains. A million men would be only a mite 
in comparison with the years and the size of the 
mountains. 

"This was that earth of which we had heard, 
Made out of Chaos and Old Xight." — Thoreau. 

Millions of years were the mountains in making. 
So we tarried a while longer and looked into that 
great gulf, and upon the huge mountains towering 
above it, like guardians of eternity. Then we rose 
and started on our way to Washington. Around the 
base of Clay we passed, and up the long slope of the 
hill to the carriage road, and thence to the summit, 
arriving in the middle of the afternoon and complet- 
ing our journey, which we made at the comfortable 
rate of a mile an hour. 

Of the night and morning on the summit of Wash- 
ington we will not say much. He who has been 
there will understand. As for he who has not been 
there, let him picture in memory all the sunrises 
that he has seen by the shores of the sea, and all the 
sunsets he has seen from hilltops of his home town. 
Let him roll them all in one great picture, and he 
has a bit of the picture of the sun setting and rising 
on Washington. 

We will never grow weary of watching the sun 
come up through the mists and reveal the mountain 
tops, like islands in a sea. That was as it was in the 
beginning. We will never forget a glorious evening 
when the sun sank in the west and two magnificent 



rainbows spanned from ravine to ravine in the east. 
So may it be in the end. 

"Uplift against the bhie walls of the sky 
Yonr mighty shapes, and let the sunshine weave 
Its golden network in your belting woods; 
Smile do^n in rainbows from your falling floods, 
And on your knightly brows at morn and eve set 
crowns of fire." — Whittier. 



THE REPORT OF THE KEEPER OF THE RECORDS. 

After the sun went down, we gathered around the 
council fire, to listen to the report of the keeper of 
the records, for, be it known, that making written 
note of and comment upon, and contemplating in 
retrospect the adventures, experiences and impres- 
sions of each trip, is a joy of tramping in the moun- 
tains. 

Opening his book, and reading by the light of 
the fire, the keeper of the records read: — 

"We first came to Mount Washington in 1913, and 
stood on its summit, 6,523 feet above the sea level, 
or 100 times higher than the highest hill in our 
home town. Yet we will not venture the comparison 
with too much confidence, for we have not climbed 
the highest hill in our home town. 

"We wish they would push that water-tank away 
from the brass plate that is set into the pinnacle of 
Mount Washington to mark the highest spot in 'New 
England. We would like to see a memorial to Darby 
Field in place of that wretched looking tank. 

"Field, the first man to climb Moimt Washington, 
did so in 1642, or 22 years after the Pilgrims landed 
at Plymouth, and 271 years before we made our first 
visit to the summit. We would like to see a tower 
on the summit, in memory of pioneers, trail makers, 
and other leaders among men of the mountains, with 
the name of Field leading all the rest, 

"Norsemen and other early rovers of the sea, were 

13 



the first white men to see the White Mountains. 

"For the immortal Washington the mountain was 
named. As we have listened to some stories told on 
its summit, we have wondered why it did not crumble 
into dust. A few story-tellers of the mountain camps 
apparently have forgotten the little story of Wash- 
ington and the cherry tree. 

"We accept the story told us about the wind, which 
sometimes rages from 80 to 180 miles an hour, blow- 
ing the door of the stage-coach office down to Lake 
Sebago in Maine, 60 miles distant, for the teller 
showed us the door as proof of this story. 

"But we have our doubts about the night so cold 
that the water froze in the kettle on the stove while 
the fire roared beneath it. We have seen notes of 
the U. S. Weather Bureau reports, which show that 
the thermometer dropped to 50 below zero. But we 
have yet to see that kettle of frozen water. We want 
convincing evidence before we inscribe in our records 
any of the stories that we hear in the mountain 
camps. We know it was colder than 50 below one 
night at the Lake of the Cloud huts, lor we spent 
the night there, and felt the cold. 

"We accept the story of our old friend, who made 
his first visit to AVashing-ton's summit in 18G3, and 
his second in 1913, or 50 years later, then being 
accompanied by his son. We like to believe that men 
of the mountains live long and well. We hope to 
walk up the carriage road in 1962. We have faith 

14 



in Emerson's remark: ''In the woods is perpetual 
youth." 

*'Our old friend who made the trip in 1863, rode 
in the train to Lakeport, crossed Winnepesaukee, and 
thence rode by stage to the Glen House. He tramped 
up the carriage road. The railroads were making 
their way into the mountains in Civil War times. 
But the Glen, at the foot of the carriage road, is yet 
to hear the screech of the locomotive's whistle. 

""We have found most enjoyable the trip up the 
carriage road. It is eight miles, rising one foot in 
eight, with a total rise of 4,600 feet. We have made 
it in four hours up, and two hours down. When 
circumstances require we can move faster than a 
mile an hour. 

"Yes, the automobile has made its way to the 
summit; so has the railroad, which climbs the westr 
erly slope, stopping at the tip-top, though wags of 
the early New Hampshire legislature offered to give 
it a franchise to run to the moon. What a climb 
that would be ! 

"But we hope we never will get caught riding to 
the summit, unless, perchance, Passacouaway should 
come along from Indian spirit-land with his team of 
trained wolves. We'd ride with him and his wolves ; 
otherwise we will walk, walk, walk, and take our 
leisure, and enjov the eternal grandeur of the great 
hills. 

"We have roamed around the summit, to Tucker- 
man's and Huntington ravine, to the Lake of the 

15 



Clouds and the Hanging cliff, to Boott spur, Lion's 
head and Alj^ine gardens. There is no better way 
to spend a day in the mountains. Yet we will except 
that glorious trip along Gulfside trail. 

"We have tramped up Tuckerman's ravine, tarry- 
ing at Hermit lake, and later, resting by the side 
of the Snow Arch, which, in spring time, is the 
nearest approach to a glacier that we have in New 
England. An ugly little glacier it is, too. Already 
has it caught several reckless victims. "Trespassing 
Forbidden," should be the sign upon it. 

"We have looked into Huntington's ravine, but 
have not yet undertaken to scale its steep walls. 
We've heard that the record for slow traveling was 
made on these walls, the trampers advancing 100 
feet in 12 minutes. So our mile an hour gait is not 
so slow after all. 

"We have camped in Great Gulf, and have come 
up Six Husband's trail. But never again will we 
camp in the woods when there is a chance to climb 
to the summits and look down upon the rest of the 
world below. 

"We have seen the great hills in the bright sun- 
light, in the blue haze, and in the pure white snow, 
in the blankets of fog and the drenching rain. All 
seasons, all times, they call us, and they welcome us 
as good friends; for 

"Nature ever faithful is 
To such as trust her faithfulness." 



i6 



THE HEART OF NEW ENGLAND. 

The engineer begged a few moments of our time, 
to speak of the White Moimtains as "The Heart of 
^ew England," He asked that the keeper of the 
records make note of his words. 

"I agree with you," he began, "that the White 
Mountains are a glory of New England and an 
inspiration and joy to all who visit them. 

"But I would speak of them as the source of IsTew 
England enterprise and prosperity, the heart of our 
industrial and social life. 

"Our great hills, taking up a sixth of our area, 
are a natural advantage of more value than most 
of us realize. Imagine that they were leveled. 
Then we might become as bleak as the Arctic and 
as dry as the Sahara. Eor our mountains temper 
our winds, checking the cold from the north in the 
winter and sending us down cool and refreshing 
breezes in the summer. 

"Our mountain tops catch the mists that rise 
from the sea, and condense them, and send them 
down to us in rain. Our mountain forests hold back 
the snows of winter, and send them forth in dashing 
brooks. The brooks form our large rivers, and the 
rivers are a source of abundant energy, which we are 
learning to make into electricity, with which to turn 
our factory wheels and light our streets and homes. 

"I might give you the figures of our total New 
England water-powers, but figures are dreary in a 

17 



place like this, where the energies of nature go on 
for unceasing years. Yet I will say that I hope for 
the time when our J^ew England rivers, coming- 
down from out the mountains, will provide us with 
all the electrical energy that we desire, and our New 
England forests, growing on the mountain sides and 
along our rivers, will provide us with lumber for 
all our houses and all our manufacturing industries. 
"I would speak to you more at length of the 
economic, or dollars and cents value of the mountains 
to 'New England, but the hour draws late. So I will 
beg that you trampers, who have enjoyed the moun- 
tains as a playground, will also consider their eco- 
nomic value, and do all in your power to guard and 
extend the mountain parks now held by the United 
States Forestry Service, the Appalachian Mountain 
Club, and kindred organizations, for these mountains 
are the heart of our I^ew England industries." 



i8 



THE POET S GOOD NIGHT. 

As we were about to saj Good l^ight to one 
another, the poet offered as a thought for us to take 
back to our homes with us, this verse from Whittier : 

"Your unforgettable beauties interfuse 
My conunon life. Your glorious shapes and hues 
And sun-dropped splendors at my bidding come, 
Loom vast through dreams and stretch in billowing 

length 
From the sea level of my lowland home." 




19 



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